Taylor Made Owens

Volume One

Strange to think that on certain momentous days, days that will forever change our life, or even end it, we wake up without a clue as to what is about to happen. Saturday the fourth of April was such a day for the Owens family of Framingham, Massachusetts. It was a glorious morning, the kind that makes us happy to be alive. It was the last morning three of the four of them would ever see.

November 163, you’re cleared for takeoff on runway one five, said the air traffic controller.

November 163, replied Jim Owens, as he applied the throttle and turned the plane onto the runway. He put on full throttle, and the plane accelerated on its takeoff run.

As the plane left the ground, his wife, Jill, cried, Jimmy, he’s not stopping! pointing to a commuter plane crossing the runway just ahead. Oh, God! she said. The former fighter pilot veered off sharply to the left to avoid the commuter plane, but the maneuver put the small plane into a stall. It slammed into the ground, killing Jim and Tara, their little girl, on impact.

Jill died a few seconds later, her last words gasped to their absent son, I’m sorry, Bobby.

Chapter One

Six Years Later

"Oh, did you read this? Mr. Carlton asked his wife, Gertrude, as he folded up and put down his newspaper and sat down to breakfast. Some crooks was caught after they broke into some old fogies’ house, tied ‘em up, and stole a bunch of stuff. They should lock ‘em up and throw away the key."

*

Mr. Owens, sit down, instructed a winsome woman of forty to Robert Owens as a police officer escorted him into her office. The officer left. The young teenager sat and tried to marshal a smile through his apprehension. I’m Lisa Taylor, and I’ll be your caseworker. She tried to set him at ease with small talk. Do you go by Bobby or Bob or Rob—

Bobby or Bob.

Despite being so unkempt it looked like he worked at it, the ragamuffin still managed to be pleasing to the eye. She said with a convivial smile, May I ask if you have a distaste for cutting or combing your hair?

He relaxed, returned the smile, and responded, Haircuts are a touchy subject for my foster parents. They gave me fifteen bucks for a haircut a few months ago, but were somehow surprised that when faced with the choice between a hot fudge sundae, ten packs of baseball cards, and a Hershey bar, or a haircut, I made the obvious one, so next time I asked for money for a haircut they handed me a pair of scissors. You can see the result.

Okay, well, let’s talk about why you’re here. I understand you’ve admitted to being a part of the gang that raided the Sanderson home last night?

What I said was I went into the house to help the fossils after those guys left. Obviously that was a mistake, he noted with a bitter smirk.

No, your mistake was not reporting a serious crime that you knew was taking place. The police don’t suspect you of taking part in the crime, but you must have known what was going to happen since you went there with them. You had a responsibility to call for help. The Sandersons might have been injured—or even killed.

They said if I told anyone, they’d get me, but the police don’t give a shit about that.

Please have some respect, Bobby. Watch your language. Now tell me why you hang out with those troublemakers.

He considered for a moment how to respond. You ever see the videos they show in school with the pathetic kid that wanders around the schoolyard all alone, and nobody bothers with him except the bullies? I was the star. I cried a lot in the months after my parents and sister died, and the bullies loved me for it. At first I hid or ran, but it only got worse. After my grandmother died—

When was that?

A year and a half ago.

You moved here to live with her when your parents died?

Uh-huh. After she died and I moved into the foster home, I decided never to play the victim again. Any hint of taunting and I’d punch—hard. That was really effective in stopping the bullies, but then, all of a sudden, I was the bully. Now no one will go near me except those guys.

So you fell in with the wrong crowd. Tell me what happened last night.

They came by my apartment, and I was bored as always, so I went out with them. They’d already made their plan for the home invasion and picked out the targets. They told me while we were walking there. I tried to think of a way to get out of it, but I couldn’t, so when we got there I just told them I wouldn’t do it. They threatened to get me if I squealed, as I told you, and went ahead with their plan. I hid outside. The old lady was screaming and crying. I felt sick just hearing it. After they ran off, I went in and found two old people bound and gagged, lying on the floor. The woman was crying, and the man was unconscious. I think he was having trouble breathing through the sock they stuffed in his mouth. I untied them and helped the man to the couch when he revived. The woman called the police, so I left. Those fucking retards—

Bobby, please!

Sorry. Those fucking mentally challenged fellows wore balaclavas, but left fingerprints everywhere, and called each other by their real names. The cops arrested the four of them this morning. They ratted on me, so here sits your newest juvenile delinquent case at your mercy, kind, pretty lady.

No more cursing. Understand? You don’t think you did anything wrong?

Wrong, no. Stupid, yes. If I just left, I wouldn’t be in this mess. That’ll teach me to lend a helping hand, I guess.

Don’t take that lesson. It’s only because of what you did for the Sandersons that the police are giving you this second chance. Anyway, you were already in trouble with this other charge.

He started fidgeting.

Tell me what happened at the sports store, and what lesson you learned.

A misguided youth took a little something, but he redeemed himself when he helped a pair of relics, so the kind, pretty lady let him go.

What happened at the sports store? she repeated, more authoritatively.

I still have the glove my father bought me when I was five. I needed a new one, so I went to Harry’s Sports. I wasn’t satisfied with the selection available for the dollar sixty-eight I had to my name, so I chose the nicest one, tucked it under my jacket and walked out of the store.

Do you feel any remorse for taking the glove?

Yeah, sure.

You’re not very convincing, Mr. Owens.

Okay, the truth is I was thrilled I finally had a new mitt. I had no other way to get one. How am I supposed to play baseball without a fuc—without a glove? I love baseball and I was really good, but I haven’t played since … Ah, I don’t have the money to join a league anyway, so who cares, right? He lowered his eyes and struggled to hold back his tears. After a moment, he glanced at her.

She attempted a grave look of disapproval, but her kind heart exhumed a sorrowful smile instead. Reassured, he said, I did feel a little guilty when I thought of how my parents would’ve reacted. I actually imagined I felt my father’s hand on my shoulder, urging me to return to the store, and that’s what I did, redirected not so much by guilt, but by the security guard who was the owner of the hand on my shoulder.

Lisa had to bite her lip to prevent from smiling. She liked his sense of humor and use of the language, which was unusual for a fourteen-year-old, and unique for a delinquent.

What have you learned from this experience?

Don’t try to look nonchalant when you’re stealing. Just grab what you want, and run your ass off.

Lisa gave him a stern stare to convey her disapproval. He smiled.

The police have offered you an option called juvenile diversion, which allows you to bypass the courts and do community service to pay for your crime. I’ve spoken to them and to the store manager, and we’ve agreed that one hundred hours is a just penalty. Is this a problem for you?

Do I get to keep the glove?

Please take this seriously, Mr. Owens, she chided. You joke and act as if this doesn’t bother you, but I can see it does. I know you have good in you, otherwise you wouldn’t have helped the Sandersons. She took a sip of her coffee. I’m tempted to move you to a new foster home since your current foster parents don’t seem to be doing well by you, and you’ve gotten in with some bad company. I have a good couple in mind. They live near me in Kilworth, which would help me keep an eye on you, too. What would you think of moving out there?

Fine by me.

Okay. I’ll set up a move right away. So, for your hundred hours, you can help at various places like hospitals, the food bank, or the Y. Do you have any preference at all?

Towel boy in the girls’ locker room?

Uh, no. The food bank needs help now. I’ll put you there. Okay? She typed something into her computer, printed out a sheet, and said, Look this over and sign it if you agree to do your community service. She handed him a pen, one that she’d had in her mouth a moment before. He looked askance at her, and she said, Sorry, I guess I’m an oral personality. I can find another one.

No, that’s okay, he said as he signed the document. But if you were an anal personality, I would’ve insisted on it. She laughed.

She gave him a brochure about the food bank. I’ll meet you at the address shown on the front of this pamphlet at nine o’clock on Saturday morning. I’ll introduce you to the director, and he’ll tell you what he wants you to do. Go home and pack. I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning and take you to your new foster home.

She put him with the best foster parents available and kept close tabs to ensure nothing else went wrong with this sad case.

*

So it was that in the middle of eighth grade, our protagonist moved to his final foster home. With him, he brought an old steamer trunk that his dad had bought secondhand to use as a combination liquor cabinet and coffee table in his dorm room at Berkeley. In that black trunk was everything Robert owned: a few tatty articles of clothing, a child’s baseball mitt and bat, and a few irreplaceable keepsakes from his former life. He had kept only what his mother, father, and sister had treasured most in life: his mother’s wedding and engagement rings, love letters from her husband, Olympic bronze medal and VCR tape of her figure skating performance that had earned her the medal; his father’s wedding ring, baseball jersey, and Air Force wings; his sister’s favorite blanket. He also kept family pictures, home movies, and a newspaper account of their death.

He took out his clothes and put them in the dresser, then placed the trunk at the foot of his bed. But he seldom opened it. It was still too painful.

Gunnar and Elspeth Krieger, two hefty German ex-patriots who looked just like each other, were the new foster parents. They had no love to give him—but, then, that would be expecting too much. They saw to it he was housed, clothed, and fed. They let him come and go as he pleased, just asking to be kept informed as to his whereabouts. The sole knock against them was they were miserly. Young Robert was fed mostly with bland, leftover hospital food that Elspeth brought home from her job as a cook at the university hospital. They gave him a twenty-five-dollar monthly allowance for all needs beyond food and shelter, so his clothes were Salvation Army castoffs, and his hair grew down past his shoulders. He looked just like the waif he was.

The couple lived in Kilworth, a delightful little subdivision of detached homes set on rolling hills on the bucolic banks of the Thames River just west of London, Ontario. Kilworth is an upper-middle class neighborhood, although the Krieger house was situated in the least affluent part of the village, on a circle of starter houses at the top of the hill near the highway.

*

Lisa thought Robert could benefit by earning some money. Maybe that would attenuate any disposition he had to steal. She was also anxious to get rid of a dirt mountain in her driveway that was growing its own forest while waiting for her husband and son to spread it. She offered the lad fifty dollars for the chore, and he agreed. Her husband, Bill, an inspector with the Ontario Provincial Police, wasn’t pleased with his do-gooder wife bringing this delinquent into his neighborhood, but said nothing on the matter. When she hatched a plan to bring him to their house, though, he balked.

I don’t want that hoodlum near my children or niece. God knows what losing his family did to his mind. Tell him never mind.

Come on, Bill, Lisa replied. He’s no angel, but he’s had an awful life since his parents died. There aren’t many boys around with Bobby Owens’s pedigree; I don’t know of any. His parents were brilliant scientists, and I think he’s just as brilliant. I’d hate to shut him off from our children for that reason alone. Besides, if everyone shunned him for something that wasn’t his fault, he would become unbalanced.

Mr. Taylor relented, but resolved to keep a close eye on him, especially around his daughter.

Robert showed up at the appointed time and place on an idyllic early spring Saturday morning. Idyllic or no, he became distressed at the sight of a pile of dirt so huge, he needed a Sherpa guide to scale to its snowy summit. Water from heavy storms was seeping into the basement, so Bill wanted to change the grade in the backyard to direct the water away from the house, preferably into the neighbor’s. Bill gave Robert a shovel, wheelbarrow, and instructions, and he got to work.

About three hours into the endeavor, Lisa returned from the mall with her children, thirteen-year-old fraternal twins—a girl and a boy—and her fourteen-year-old niece. The boy, Jeremy, went into the house, but the two girls stayed for a few minutes to gawk at the longhaired imp.

At first Robert didn’t notice them. Although girls tended to notice him, even through the scruffy appearance and tattered clothes that evinced poverty, he paid them no heed—he’d had more important things on his mind like baseball and food—but when the fourteen-year-old girl, Jennifer, approached him, he stared until he walked the wheelbarrow into a tree. It stopped short upon hitting the tree, and the angle was such that the left handle swung around and lodged in his groin.

Discomfited, he thought to himself, Oh, man, that hurts. I must have—God she’s perfect!—squashed them for good.

Amazing, isn’t it, how a million years of evolution enables an immediate recognition of beauty, no matter what the circumstance? He told himself, Aphrodite, surrender your crown and bow ye to the new icon of feminine pulchritude. Well, okay, it was closer to, My balls are crushed, but I’ve never seen such a fabulous face! She had awakened something that had never before stirred in this young man, who was still progressing through puberty.

Jennifer Lynn Taylor had a perfectly proportioned, magnificent face framed by sensational blonde hair that cascaded down her long neck and splashed off her fair shoulders. Rosy cheeks, a delicate nose, and soft chin surrounded sumptuous lips that curved up at each extreme, forming a perfect pout when closed, and revealing a smile of surpassing splendor when drawn back. Divine eyes the color of a mountain lake on a sunny summer day, accented by long lashes, and set above her high cheeks, were of such ineffable beauty that the finest poets could no more capture it with words than they could capture a cloud with their hands. Her right eyelid drooped a touch, the imperfection that completed the perfection, rendering her countenance all the more dreamy. Slender, but developing flawlessly … Oh, just picture the prettiest girl you’ve ever seen with blonde hair and blue eyes, and that’s Jennifer. The young lady lived with her mother in nearby London, but, after her parents divorced, spent much of her time at her cousin’s happy home in Kilworth. Her father was an advertising executive in New York City.

Her cousin, Kristen Julia Taylor, though but one year younger, still looked like a little girl. She was cute, with big blue-green eyes, prominent cheeks, pert nose, and short, dark brown hair, but suffered by comparison with her cousin. A certain gleam in her eyes disclosed her kind and artless nature, her vivacity, and a sagacity far beyond her years. She was known as the smart one, her cousin the pretty one, which bothered Kristen, though she didn’t let on.

Kristen excelled in school to such a degree that her parents decided to pull her out of public school—school systems cater to mediocrity—and place her in Montessori. She was doing tenth grade-level work by the end of seventh grade, when her parents decided to put her back in public school, the cost of private secondary education being too dear for this middle-class family. She was granted admission into ninth grade in the local Catholic high school for the coming fall, joining her cousin. Her twin brother, an average student, entered grade eight.

Like many gorgeous girls, Jennifer felt it was her birthright to capture and discard any boy she pleased. Jennifer had a well-deserved reputation for being callous and capricious with boys. She found she had power over boys and became addicted to it. Jennifer dismissed Robert on first sight as a vagrant in the making. Even Kristen, who would never need a man to rely on, couldn’t defy evolution enough to overcome this instinct. She, too, assumed from his appearance that he was indigent and low-class, unworthy of her.

Jennifer determined it might be fun to play with the cute boy for a while—to tease, taunt, and lure him—with full intentions of marooning him as soon as he made a beachhead. That he would fall for her was certain. Everyone with enough testosterone to qualify as male had since she began developing curves two years previous. That there had to be a rejection stage was also patent. How better to assert complete domination?

Jennifer commenced the game. She took off her jacket. She was wearing a tight red shirt and blue jeans. Watch, she mentioned to Kristen, he’ll stare at me. Hands clasped behind her behind, she meandered up close to him looking at the ground. Coyly, she raised her eyes to meet his, then quickly lowered her gaze. Demurely inclining her head toward him, she again raised her eyes, but this time stared daringly for a few seconds before again averting her eyes. He was hypnotized. To finish him off, she turned sideways, jutted out her chest, tossed her hair, gazed again at him over her shoulder, and smiled invitingly.

Being unable to disengage the stare, he walked into the tree and bagged himself. She erupted in laughter and said, Are you all right?

Struck dumb by this immaculate vision, all he could manage was a nod and a blush, while maintaining his gape at her incomparable face. He knew he was staring, but he couldn’t stop himself until she turned and walked away. She’d attracted many boys before, but she’d never known such exaltation. I have complete power over this boy, mused the smug lass.

After Robert recovered, Kristen, who was wearing a knitted white sweater with a colorful log cabin on the chest, came over to see if she could command his attention, too. She had no interest in the teen, but wanted to test how appealing she might be to a guy, so she ambled up to him, smiled, and stuck out her flat chest, hoping he’d walk into another tree.

Nice sweater, he noted. What’s that? he said, pointing at the log cabin. The little house on the prairie?

Kristen, who admired a sharp tongue except when it was lashing her, blushed and retreated to her cousin’s side. Jennifer laughed. That was enough for today. The game shall recommence at a time of her choosing. Bill, who’d seen the girls near Robert, told them to come in. Stay away from him, both of you. Understand?

When he finished the chore, Robert came to the door for payment. Kristen answered and promptly shut the door in his face with a giggle. He rang the bell again, and she did the same thing. The next time he rang, Lisa broke the impasse and let him in. Krissy, behave, she said.

While Lisa fetched his money, the teens stood in the hallway glaring at each other. Lisa returned, handed him his payment and walked off. Kristen, anxious to repay him for the insult he’d greeted her with, said, My mother thinks you’re some kind of genius because your parents were. I think this nut fell pretty far from the tree. He sneered, but said nothing, so she continued. I think I can classify you. An IQ below seventy is a moron, below fifty an imbecile, below thirty an idiot, and below that—you.

I want you to do something for me, but I think you’d tattle on me if I said it straight out, so I’ll give you a hint that I hope you’ll understand: it begins with ‘f’ and ends in ‘uck off.’

She smirked at him. Never before had she encountered someone who could match her jibe for jibe. She’d met her match.

He continued, So, Krissy—

My name is Kristen. My family calls me Krissy.

I’ll jot that in my diary, Taylor. Where’s your sister?

You mean Jenny? She’s my cousin.

I should’ve figured there wouldn’t be such a wide range of looks within the same family.

Ha. Ha. Jenny’s here every weekend. I can call her if you want, but I should warn you—she’s used much better looking guys than you as a doormat. She forgot you even before you reeled your tongue back in. Come on, we’ll go see her. I want to see her laugh at the thought that you would have a prayer for her.

Never mind, he replied, thinking he’d better be careful about trying to outwit this one. Bill came in at that point and saw his daughter talking to Robert. Seeing the displeasure on her father’s face, Robert quickly quit the Taylor abode.

I warned you to keep your distance from him, young lady, and I meant it, Bill pronounced. It was bad enough Owens was a delinquent, he was also a boy. Bill had drilled into Kristen the virtues of staying away from men, since they only think about one thing. Actually, that’s not a fair charge. Most men think about sports and music, too—and how many women they’d get if only they were a pro football player or a rock star.

*

Three more months brought the school year’s surcease, and with it, the Taylors left for their cottage northwest of London on the eastern shore of Lake Huron. The twins and their cousin Jennifer spent the entire summer there with Lisa every year. Bill came up on weekends.

Robert stayed in Kilworth with nothing to do. He yearned to play baseball, but he had no money. He looked around the house for money to steal, but found nothing. At summer’s end, he called Lisa to ask about getting his parents’ money. She informed him that their will specified he couldn’t get access to his trust fund until age nineteen, though it did allow small disbursements if the public guardian approved. Lisa made arrangements for him to get a hundred dollars per month from the fund.

With his first hundred, he got a buzz cut, a used baseball glove, and his first new clothes in years. Privation having been his lot since his family died, he felt richer than the queen of England, but he soon discovered that one hundred dollars is a trifle.

Chapter Two

She’s Causing Him Woe

On the first day of high school, the girls noticed a new guy at the bus stop. Robert Owens had grown five inches over the past few months. Having outgrown every piece of clothing he owned, he was forced buy a whole new set of secondhand clothing, but he was sporting new attire for the first day. His short haircut showed off his pleasant face.

The bus for the Catholic school always came first, followed shortly thereafter by the public one. Robert chose public school, even though the Catholic one was much closer; he’d have gone any distance to avoid anything to do with religion. As the Catholic school bus pulled up to the stop, several female heads were turned to the right, staring through the windows at him. Who is that? they wondered.

One said, Isn’t that that Owens boy?

Kristen looked when she heard his name and couldn’t believe the transformation.

He’s kind of hot, Terri Zylstra observed.

Yeah, not bad at all, seconded Karen Chan, with a glance at her boyfriend, Trevor Larsen, who reacted with a menacing sneer at the low-class rogue.

Ryan Olsen, noting that his goddess, Jennifer, was studying Robert with interest, observed, Look at the way the ugly fag is standing there, as if he’s real cool.

Jennifer returned, Well, I think he’s really cute. You’re just jealous.

Of that dumb ass? I could beat the crap out of him, Ryan declared.

Yeah, right, Jennifer said with a smirk. Get out there and put him in his place, the troublemaker taunted with a snicker. Kristen smiled to underline that her cousin was being sarcastic, but Ryan interpreted the smile as concurrence and resolved to do as they suggested.

On the bus home, he and two friends planned an ambush at the bus stop. Their bus normally arrived about ten minutes before the public school bus. Ryan, Trevor, and a third bully, Bret Walker, would rearrange his face. Overhearing this, Kristen attempted to dissuade them, but to no avail.

You and your cousin were the ones who said we should put him in his place, Ryan retorted dismissively.

Jennifer wasn’t on the bus, having gone to her home.

I never said that. My cousin said it, but she didn’t really mean it, Kristen protested, but they had decided their course, and that was that.

When he stepped off his bus, Robert saw the three girding for a tussle. Many of the rest of Kilworth’s Catholic high school kids were there as well. Ringside seats to the fight of the month they had, and they sensed a good, old-fashioned blood bath. His first instinct was to run, but he was surrounded and didn’t want to be considered spineless, so he tried to joke his way out of it: I think you’ve got me really scared, don’t I? No one laughed.

We’re here to put you in your place as she suggested, avowed Ryan, pointing to Kristen.

No! she said, I did not say that. Don’t hurt him.

They didn’t listen.

As the bullies closed in, Robert essayed another tactic. One at a time, okay? Three against one is not fair! Nothing. If you come in all at once, I’ll get each one of you when you’re alone! That threat seemed to unnerve Trevor, but he stayed put as Ryan and Bret stood their ground.

Robert, remembering some tips Gunnar had given him on the basics of boxing, turned toward the leader and, with all his weight behind it, applied a direful fist to Ryan’s jaw. That stunned him. The follow up jab sent him down in a heap. Upon realizing the caliber of his opponent, he stayed down, feigning insensibility. As Ryan fell to the ground, the two other assailants attacked Robert. Trevor hit him hard from the left, bloodying the Owens nose. Bret hit next, a left poke to the right eye.

Ooh, that’ll be black tonight, murmured the audience. Kristen was terrified as the fight unfolded and human damage mounted.

Robert next turned to Bret, hitting him hard in the ribcage and stomach. Down he went to his knees, out of air and out of the fight temporarily. Meanwhile, Trevor contributed by smashing Robert over the head with his heavy book bag. That felled him, but he got up quickly and hit him in the mouth. Trevor responded by charging at Robert and knocking him down; he clumped the prone boy in the stomach. Kristen covered her eyes.

Robert was hurt, but enraged to such a degree that he got up and punched Trevor so hard in the face, he stumbled away dazed and bloodied. Bret, able to breathe again, then punched him in the cheek. Robert, nearly spent by this time, turned and smashed him in the nose, breaking it. Bret ran home, blood pouring from his proboscis. As Robert fell to his knees exhausted, Ryan righted himself and came over to assert his dominance. He stormed into Robert, knocking him over and finishing his ability to defend himself. Trevor returned and kicked him again. Robert lay in the fetal position clutching his head.

With the horde on their side, the two were ready to continue kicking the unpitied boy, but Kristen stood in their way, saying, No! The fight is over. Go home. Satisfied they’d won, they left. The crowd dispersed, a couple of friends patting Ryan and Trevor on the back. Kristen came over to help Robert, but backed off when she saw the rage in his eyes.

Are you satisfied now? he sobbed. It had been a long time since he’d cried. He’d fought back tears under the provocation of fear, of pain, of ire, of humiliation, and of loss, but when all five coincided, he was powerless against their onslaught. With the fear of getting hurt, with the injuries he’d sustained hurting him to the very bone, with the fury he felt in being ganged up on, with the embarrassment of many witnesses seeing his pummeling, with his status as the impecunious orphan boy being the chief cause of his continuing misery; with all that, the emotion burst forth in piteous wails. Am I now … in … in my place?

No. I, I tried to stop them. I didn’t want—

Get away from me! he yelled. He endeavored to get up, but couldn’t, so he reassumed the fetal position, helpless against the torrent of tears, and covering his face to hide them.

You need help, Kristen insisted. Let me help you home.

No! Leave me alone! he screamed, trying to get to his knees, but collapsing to a sitting position. Blood, dirt, and tears smudged together to render him a dreadful sight. His face had begun to swell, his eye to blacken. Kristen was aghast and felt terrible for him. Since he wouldn’t accept her help, she gathered his things. A few of the mob had emptied his book bag and scattered the contents far and wide.

After a few more minutes, Robert struggled to his feet, steadied himself and tottered home. It was a sad sight to behold, his tremulous gait observed from behind: head downcast, ears reddened, shoulders slumped, arms enfolding his aching gut. Kristen lowered her head and walked home.

That evening she mustered the courage to take his things back to him.

Zere’s a girl here to see you, Elspeth said, opening his door. He’s hurt. Ze bullies beaten him up. He said he vas not vanting to vight, but zey attack him anyvay, Elspeth informed her.

Kristen nodded and looked to see Robert on his bed, lying on his side facing the wall. Hello, she ventured. I brought your things back to you. I think I got them all.

Elspeth left.

Thanks. Now go away, he submitted.

Are you okay?

I’m just peachy, he said to the wall.

I think you should be proud of the way you handled yourself. You needn’t be feeling sorry for yourself.

He chuckled caustically as he sat up and turned to face her. Do you know what I miss the most? he asked.

Pardon? she responded, taken aback at the bruises and swelling on his face.

Pancakes, he said.

I don’t under—

Well, not the pancakes per se—the feeling I got on Sunday mornings when I woke up to breakfast. Mom used to make homemade pancakes and bacon every Sunday. We’d have the pancakes with maple syrup or whipped cream and strawberries. Funny thing, I never knew how much I loved it until it was gone … I had a family, you know. Then, all of a sudden I didn’t. Just like that. He snapped his finger. Gone.

May I ask what happened to them? she asked with a shaky voice. He went to his trunk, rummaged around amongst the disarrayed remnants of his dead family, found an old newspaper clipping, and handed it to her. She read to herself:

Worcester The crash of a private plane at the Worcester Regional Airport yesterday had tragic consequences for a family of four from Framingham, for the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and beyond. Killed in the crash were Dr. Jill Owens, a nationally-renowned heart surgeon and research professor at MIT, her husband, Dr. James Owens, a leading biochemist at the university, and their four-year-old daughter, Tara.

The Federal Aviation Administration has begun an investigation into the crash and was unwilling to comment on possible causes at this stage. Witnesses said, however, that the Owens’ plane almost hit a commuter plane that had taxied onto the runway in front of their plane. The pilot, who had just taken off, veered to miss the airliner, but lost control, and his plane hit the ground, killing all three occupants. He was a highly trained, experienced pilot, having flown F-4 and F-15 fighter-jets for the U.S. Air Force in the 1970s.

Dr. George Liu, a spokesperson for MIT, said, This is a terrible loss for the university, the country and even the world. These two scientists were engaged in groundbreaking research that could have benefited thousands of people.

Both were popular professors. Many of their students cried when told of the accident.

The Owens leave behind an eight-year-old son, Robert, who fortunately decided to go to a birthday party instead of the weekly family outing in their small plane. He will live with his grandmother in Canada.

Teary-eyed, she handed the clipping back to him. He repined, Life just went on for everyone else. They paused for a minute to say, ‘Ah, poor orphan boy. That’s too bad. Oh, well, let’s eat. Pass the salt, will ya?’ I lost my parents, my sister, my friends, my cat, my home, my country—everything.

What happened to your grandmother?

"She died almost two years ago now. I never once thanked her for looking after me. Not once in four and a half years. I wouldn’t let myself love her because I figured she was old, and she’d go any time, too. I was right. I found her dead in her bed; she’d died of a stroke overnight. ‘Don’t leave me all alone!’ I screamed at her as I shook her and shook her. I sat there next to her body wondering what to do. Obviously I couldn’t leave her there, but what would the police do with me when I called them? Put me in an orphanage or with strangers?

Just try to imagine the pure terror of realizing you have no one in the entire world. I was so angry and so scared. I’m still scared. I try to convince myself none of it’s real, that maybe it’s this long nightmare I’m trapped in. If I could only wake myself up, I could have pancakes, you know? You can’t even begin to comprehend my shitty life, yet you stand there and callously accuse me of feeling sorry for myself.

I didn’t mean—

Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Nothing does. I just need someone, anyone, to understand that I wasn’t always this poor, beat-up orphan you see before you. I had a family. I had a life! he vociferated as he plunged his fists into his bed. Tears ran down his cheeks. He wiped them with his sleeve. Kristen, too, began to cry. I’ve had to change a lot to deal with what happened, but I’m not this scum that people see me as.

I don’t think—

You saw in the article that my mom and dad were professors at MIT, but they were much more. Mom won an Olympic bronze medal. Here it is here, he said, pulling it out of his trunk and putting it on. My dad was an awesome baseball player. He actually made the majors for one game before blowing out his shoulder. Here’s his San Francisco Giants jersey. He put it on. Before that he was a fighter pilot. They were incredible people. That’s who I came from. That’s who I am! But all I am to you and your cousin is a worthless foster boy.

No, she said. You’re wrong about me. I never wanted them to hurt you. I admire you. I admire your courage.

"You think I was brave out there? I was scared as hell, but I knew from hard experience, it would be less painful in the long run if I stayed to face the music than if I ran away. Then I’d be a chicken in everyone’s eyes, and the bullies would never leave me alone. Now everyone knows they’ll get hurt if they take me on. Yes, I apologize, but I am feeling sorry for myself at this moment, while I struggle to see out of my swollen eye and speak through my fat lip. Forgive me, your heinous, he said bowing. Now get out!"

Kristen turned and walked out, then ran home. Her life, she realized, was blessed compared to his. She knew he’d lost his family, but it didn’t seem to trouble him outwardly, so it didn’t trouble her. She had never considered what a terrible tragedy it was for him; he really had lost everything. She cried just thinking about it. How remarkable it was that he turned out so well in the face of that, she reflected.

Jennifer, who felt a little remorseful about the fight and who was rebellious enough to want to see Robert because she’d been forbidden to do so, went to see him the next weekend. I heard you beat up three boys. That’s pretty impressive, she complimented as he opened his front door.

Thanks, the surprised and delighted teenager replied, while straightening out his hair with his hand, though I imagine the three dickless gobs of shit that left me lying mangled and whimpering in a ditch would be surprised to learn I beat them up. She laughed. Um, do you want to come in? he said. He never dreamed such a stunning girl would come calling for him.

No, but let’s walk and talk for a while, she answered. He smiled and nodded, and the two strolled through their lovely neighborhood. Although she wasn’t as polished at conversing as he, he enjoyed just looking at the striking girl. Her ethereal beauty overwhelmed any personality flaws in his judgment.

She, too, enjoyed the walk, liking his looks, sense of humor, and turns of phrase. He was so different from any other boy she’d ever met. As their stroll ended, he asked if she’d like to do it again sometime.

Maybe some time. I’ll let you know. Don’t ask me, though, she ordered.

He went home and thought of her every minute that day and in spurts that night.

Since Robert felt he couldn’t make idle threats in his vulnerable position, he set out to keep his oath to get each of his three assailants while he was alone. The next Monday, he boarded the morning Catholic school bus in search of any of the three. Ryan was the unfortunate one he spotted first. Robert grabbed him with both hands by the shirt and thrust him up, slamming his head on the ceiling of the bus. The boy collapsed, moaning and holding his head. Most of the teens who witnessed the event were stunned at its ferocity and rapidity. Before Robert could address the other two boys, the bus driver intervened, screaming, Get off my bus, hooligan!

Robert glared at Trevor and, adapting a cheesy line he’d heard on a TV movie the evening before, he said, You’re next, and I’m when through with you, you’ll be wearing your ass for a hat and your balls for a necktie.

Smiling genially at Jennifer, who smiled back, he left. Kristen and the driver helped Ryan back to his seat. He seemed okay.

Resuming her seat next to her cousin, Kristen said, I think that boy is dangerous. We should stay far away from him.

I don’t know about dangerous, but he is definitely sexy, declared Jennifer.

You’re actually turned on by what he did?

"He’s just so … I don’t know … virile—and we both know Ryan deserved it."

Be careful, Jenny. He might be violent with girls, too.

Don’t worry, cuz. He’s my puppet.

*

After school, he went to Trevor’s house and rang the bell. Trevor answered, came out to try to talk his way out of a fight, but went down at the behest of Robert’s fist. He refused to get back up, so Robert left.

Trevor phoned Bret to warn him. Trevor’s mother phoned the police, who arrived at Bret’s house to see Robert sitting on a boulder out front, waiting for Bret to play. They took him to the station.

Inspector Taylor took a particular interest in this case and went to interview him. In trouble again, eh?

"I guess so. Do the cops have a special squad to track down kids who get into fist fights